


Room To Grow

by ObscureReference



Category: Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Brief Alcohol Mention, Common Cold, Gen, Immaturity, M/M, Meanspirited Pranks, Pranks and Practical Jokes, Pre-Slash, Roughhousing, semi-lucid dreaming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-03-01 16:40:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23830198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ObscureReference/pseuds/ObscureReference
Summary: “Sometimes I think about what our lives would be if either of you grew up and realized reasonable adults don’t pull each other’s pigtails.” Severa sighed. “Then I remember it’ll be a cold day in hell before either of you do that.”Owain wrinkled his nose. “What’s that supposed to mean?”“Forget about it,” she said.
Relationships: Azur | Inigo/Eudes | Owain
Comments: 4
Kudos: 45





	Room To Grow

**Author's Note:**

> A long time ago I said I'd write a modern Owain/Inigo fic where they were older but still hated each other because war and necessity had never forced them to get along faster than they otherwise would have. I recently stumbled across the song "I Don't Like You" by The Wrecks (and also a little bit of their song "Favorite Liar") and that revamped my need for such a fic. Voilà. Here we are.
> 
> As always, please consider the following events/characterization in the context of the apocalypse never happening and therefore not kickstarting some character development at certain times and in certain ways. Heavily based on their C and B Supports anyway.
> 
> Also, this fic functions in a world in which Lissa and Maribelle are married.
> 
> (Tag explanations with minor spoilers: Owain and Inigo occasionally roughhouse in this fic, but they don't purposely cause physical harm. There is one instance of getting hit in the face hard enough to bruise, but it's clearly an accident. I thought about making them actually more awful with each other but decided to save it for another fic. They are Rude and very much like fourteen-year-olds in the bodies of twenty-somethings. So be aware of that. Also, the briefest of alcohol mentions in a dream.)
> 
> Finally, this fic is from Owain's POV, so please take everything he says with a big grain of biased salt.

Inigo had an obnoxious habit of never finishing his food.

It didn’t matter what he was eating. Whether it was a four-course spread, a cheap cheeseburger, or a tiny piece of toffee from one of those bags of candy he carried around at all times for some reason, Inigo was completely incapable of finishing a meal. There were always one or two bites left on his plate at lunch and dinner. Owain found open, half-eaten bags of chips laying around the apartment nigh constantly. He couldn’t count the number of almost empty soda cans and unfinished sandwiches he had finally tossed out of spite after various attempts to teach Inigo a lesson about his bad eating habits failed to stick.

No matter how long the food or drink ever lay forgotten before Owain threw it out, Inigo always had the audacity to complain that he had been “saving that for later” and “not everyone has the stomach of a _troll_ , Owain.”

Which, whatever. Maybe both of Owain’s moms had always criticized the way he ate, but at least he always finished the food on his plate. Unlike some people.

Suffice to say, Owain had grown used to the eating habits of the worst roommate in the world.

Even so, he should have known to expect the worst when he saw the three-fourths full smoothie sitting ominously on the top shelf of their shared fridge. But he hadn’t.

Instead, like a fool, he had barely registered the smoothie’s existence at all and had grabbed some cheese out of the fridge door instead. He happily snacked on that cheese and a handful of crackers he’d found in the back of the cabinet for a few minutes, completely oblivious to the plot planned against him. Then he took the script he’d scribbled out at two in the morning the night before and headed down to the alley behind his apartment complex to play out a scene.

Owain liked the alley because it was full of rocks and broken beer bottle glass—otherwise known as “ambiance,” despite his friend’s protests—and it was out of view of the street so he could practice getting into character without too many whispers or stares or police officers confronting him about “concerning behavior” interrupting his monologue sessions.

Unfortunately, Owain had forgotten a major flaw about the alley: the fact that his and Inigo’s apartment balcony sat directly above it.

Which made it very easy for Inigo to drop the remainder of the smoothie on his head not fifteen minutes after Owain reached The Zone.

“The umbral darkness cast by the Shadow Dragon cannot be pierced by mortal eyes! Only…” What was that word there? He squinted. “Only the enhanced eyesight of Odin Dark can pierce such a veil! He steadies his breath and summons his power with a piercing cry.”

He could feel inspiration building in his soul. Owain sucked in a deep breath. “Radiant—"

Something cold and wet splashed onto his head, shocking him into silence. He froze.

A syrupy substance ran over his cheeks and crept down the back of his neck.

For a moment he thought he’d been unlucky enough to be caught within range of a very sick bird. Perhaps a swarm of birds. His jaw instantly snapped shut, and his stomach lurched.

Then he caught sight of the papers in his hand—the spare leaf sheets he’d torn out of a notebook in a flash of brilliance the night before. The papers he’d been reading from a moment ago were now dripping in slushy pink ice and fruit residue. They were soaked through and completely illegible.

The pieces clicked in his mind.

“Inigo!” Owain yelled, jerking his head back to glare at the balconies above. Leftover smoothie slid uncomfortably down the back of his shirt. He ignored both it and the goosebumps that had broken out on his arms.

Inigo didn’t even pretend not to be involved. He cheekily waved at Owain from the second floor, empty smoothie cup still in hand.

“It’s warm out today, isn’t it?” Inigo said loudly. Even with the sun in Owain’s eyes, he was obviously smirking. “I figured you might need some help cooling off.”

His smug voice curled around the joke obnoxiously. Owain glowered.

“I can help you too!” he yelled. “I can help toss you out on your—"

Inigo had already disappeared back inside.

 _Coward_ , Owain thought.

He wiped his hand through his hair and grimaced at the sticky mess he found there. It was _cold_.

Ugh.

His notes were already ruined. He used any remaining dry patches of the papers to wipe the worst of the slush off his head before trudging back inside, anger thrumming under his skin. The uncomfortable rub of the now wet patches of his shirt against his shoulders didn’t help his sudden dip in mood either. He barely paid attention to the trail he left on the stairs in his wake, too upset to care about the ants that would congregate there later.

Aside from dropping the smoothie on his head, Inigo’s first mistake had been forgetting he couldn’t lock Owain out of his own apartment.

His second mistake was not fixing the lock on his bedroom door after Owain had broken it off several weeks ago.

“L-Let’s be reasonable!” Inigo said shakily from the other side of the door as Owain threw his weight against it. “I’m sure we can work something out!”

His voice was strained with effort as he struggled to keep the door from cracking open any further. Owain didn’t bother to reply.

They were both pushing against opposite sides of Inigo’s bedroom door with all their might. Normally, they might have been evenly matched. For all his complaining, Inigo put up a good fight. But Owain had a fresh spite coursing through his veins, and he managed to force Inigo’s door open inch by crucial inch through sheer force of will.

“Would it help if I said sorry?” Inigo’s asked, his voice going high at the end.

Owain grunted with effort and forced the door open another centimeter.

Probably figuring he was done for anyway, Inigo said, “You know, I normally wouldn’t say pink was your color, but in this case—”

Inigo must have accidentally slipped or thought he could catch Owain off guard somehow by letting up on the door. Owain didn’t know for sure why it had happened, but the door flew open without warning. Owain went stumbling into Inigo’s bedroom, nearly tripping over his own feet on the way inside.

Inigo might have managed to scramble away, but the force of the door opening had knocked him off balance too. Owain grabbed at him without thinking. They were both knocked to the floor.

“Wait!” Inigo yelped. “Let’s not do anything you’ll re—”

A lot of the smoothie had already fallen out of his hair on the trip upstairs, but there was just enough residue left for Owain to feel confident about rubbing his face and head into the white polo shirt Inigo was wearing. Judging from the whine Inigo made, it was an effective move.

“Oh, yuck! Hey, come on, that’ll stain!”

Owain wrapped his sticky hands around Inigo’s wrists to keep him from struggling. Try as Inigo might, he couldn’t buck Owain off.

“And who’s fault is that?” Owain snapped.

Inigo bucked under him in vain. “Yours! For being so blind that you don’t see someone standing right above you!”

“I wouldn’t have to worry about watching out from above—” Ouch, that was going to bruise later. “—if you weren’t such an _ass_!”

Even struggling on the floor, Inigo had the wherewithal to smirk. “I’ll have you know that I’m the most good-looking ass you’ll ever have the pleasure of— _Ah_!”

The top of Owain’s head knocked against the bottom of Inigo’s jaw as Inigo jerked. They both cried out, Owain more out of startlement than pain. Inigo’s hand flew to his chin. He finally—and satisfyingly—looked like he’d been knocked off his high horse.

“You made me bite my tongue,” Inigo accused, sounding petulant and slightly slurred.

“You’ll live,” Owain told him. Accidentally hitting their heads together had knocked some of the anger out of him. He released Inigo and stood up.

Inigo watched him go without moving.

* * *

Staining Inigo’s shirt a little with marks that would probably come off in a single wash didn’t feel like enough. Owain considered retaliating further, but he didn’t have anything on hand that could cause Inigo the same level of distress as a smoothie except for a bottle of chocolate syrup that Owain kept in his room for emergencies. But chocolate syrup was too precious to waste, so Owain settled for climbing into the shower instead.

He looked in the bathroom mirror. His cheeks were flushed with exertion, his hair even more askew than normal. The smoothie had left pink stains on his skin where it had tried. Only time would reveal how well his shirt would recover from the sweat and smoothie concoction it was bathing in.

He licked his lower lip. It tasted like strawberries.

With a sigh, Owain turned on the shower and peeled off his clothes.

* * *

One week later, Owain’s bedroom door still had a lock and Inigo’s did not.

The lock came in handy when Inigo came stomping back into their apartment at seven-something in the morning and jiggled the handle on Owain’s door fruitlessly. Inigo quickly switched tactics in favor of slamming his fist against Owain’s bedroom door instead.

“Owain!” he yelled. “I know you’re awake! Unlock my bike, asshole! I’m not taking the bus!”

Owain pretended not to hear him and continued to scroll through his phone. Waking up early had its benefits.

Inigo pounded on the door again. “Come on! I’m going to be late!”

Owain rolled his eyes.

“You should have thought about that before you bleached all my black clothes,” he said loudly. Sure, his dark jeans looked a little more interesting, but Owain was seriously running low on shirts he could wear in public now.

Inigo thankfully stopped hitting the door.

“For real?” he said, incredulous. Owain heard him shuffling in the hallway. “It’s not my fault that the bleach and the detergent look similar! I thought I was doing you a favor! Unlock my bike!”

“Have fun being late,” Owain said.

There was a thud in the hallway—probably Inigo kicking the bottom of the door, if the grunt of pain Owain heard was anything to go by.

“Ugh, you’re lucky I don’t have time for this,” Inigo grumbled just audibly enough to be heard. Louder, so Owain didn’t have to strain so much, he said, “My bike better be unlocked when I get home!”

Owain hummed noncommittally. Inigo huffed and stomped back out the door.

He did not, in fact, unlock Inigo’s bike before he got home. Inigo’s constant whining was obnoxious enough that Owain ended up releasing the bike from its chains two days later, however.

Owain begrudgingly resigned himself to wearing his newly blotchy shirts around the apartment and nowhere else.

* * *

The series of events that caused Inigo and Owain to live together had been remarkably simple despite the idea having been a bad one from the start.

To begin with, although Owain had been eager to move out of his parent’s house and take the first steps into adulthood, he hadn’t had the funds to live on his own just yet.

Brady argued that after spending a whole lifetime living with Owain, he deserved a break by now, so living with his brother was off the table.

Lucina and Severa already lived together, and neither of them were looking for a third roommate.

Gerome and Laurent were in the same boat and even less enthused by the idea of living together than Owain’s cousin had been.

Cynthia had seemed tempted by the idea, but she and Owain had gotten distracted while talking about it. The conversation had quickly spiraled into an argument about the proper layout of the hero’s journey in fiction. Somehow during this time—and Owain was not accepting the blame for this, no matter what Cynthia said—the cookies she had put in the oven had caught on fire. The topic of living together had quickly been forgotten in the ensuing scramble for a fire extinguisher.

By the end of the week of searching for a roommate, Owain had begun to feel rather dispirited.

Then his mom mentioned offhand that oh, wasn’t Olivia’s son looking for a roommate at the moment too? That Inigo was always so polite and charming and _sweet_. Owain could probably learn a thing or two from him, you know. Wouldn’t it just be great if they could live together so Owain wouldn’t have to worry about a stranger for a roommate?

With a sinking feeling in his chest, Owain had begun to protest. But his mom had already dialed Olivia’s number, and the two women were squealing on the phone together with excitement within minutes. By that point, both Owain and Inigo’s fates had been sealed.

In the present, Inigo chirped a shameless “Thank you!” as he swiped the sausage off Owain’s fork, popped it in his mouth, and skipped out the door.

Owain, clad in a bleach-stained shirt he was now using to sleep in and equally ruined sweatpants, was too used to this behavior to go running after him. This happened about once a day.

Inigo might have had a pretty face and a playful attitude that made everyone else either roll their eyes at his “benign antics” or sadly fall for his charms, but Owain knew better. He knew who Inigo was on the inside: a nosy jerk of a roommate who left food everywhere, couldn’t make a bed to save his life, never cleaned up the hair products he left all over the bathroom sink, believed a pout and a wink would solve all his problems, and thrived on harassing Owain with “harmless pranks.”

Sadly and in active spite of the fact he’d been robbed _twice_ since they had moved in together, Inigo also paid his rent on time, so Owain didn’t have a legal leg to stand on in that regard.

He took another bite of his breakfast. It had gone mostly cold while he’d been thinking.

With Inigo finally gone for the morning, the apartment was blessedly devoid of pop music and hairdryer sounds.

He stabbed another piece of waffle with his fork.

One day, if it came to it, he hoped Olivia would forgive him for murdering her son.

* * *

Severa sipped her latte. Loudly.

Owain waited.

Finally, she set her cup down. There was foam on her upper lip, which Owain chose not to mention.

She looked at Owain evenly. “So. What’d he do this time?”

Owain tried not to grimace. He managed mostly because it hurt to stretch his cheek muscles too much. He imagined the dark purple bruise that had formed right on the apple of his cheek looked even worse in the daylight.

“He defaced private property,” he said.

“Mm.” Severa sipped her latte again. “What does it feel like to be permanently twelve years old?”

“Twelve-year olds don’t pay their own bills,” Owain protested. “ _I’m_ a man. Inigo’s the one who never grew up.”

“Right,” Severa said with clear disbelief. “And _Inigo_ was the one who decided to start a fist-fight on top of whatever else he did because…”

They both knew Owain had been the one who had jumped Inigo first. He always was. Inigo was all bark and no bite.

Owain averted his eyes and took another bite of his muffin in lieu of answering.

“That’s what I thought,” Severa said.

It wasn’t a surprise that Severa didn’t ask for more details about what had happened. She had witnessed the development of their rivalry since the start. She’d heard it all and then some by this point.

In truth, Inigo striking him had been accidental. At least, Owain considered it accidental because Inigo had never really tried to really _hurt_ him before, and he’d looked just as startled as Owain had felt when it happened. Slamming his elbow into Owain’s cheek when Owain burst into the bathroom, shouting, had probably been reflex on Inigo’s part, not the next step in his ultimate plan to ruin Owain’s life.

The world had briefly come to a standstill when the smack of bone against skin filled the air. Inigo had tensed, his reflection in the bathroom mirror looking almost comically aghast. Owain’s cheek had stung from the impact, although not terribly. They stared at each other, the newly defaced Manuel of Justice drooping in Owain’s hand.

Ultimately, however, Inigo had not apologized for the bruise on Owain’s cheek, nor for the obnoxious comments he had scrawled into the margins of the Manuel of Justice while Owain had been out, so Owain didn’t feel bad about breaking the silence to yank Inigo’s awful cologne off the counter and pour it down the drain either. Inigo deserved worse, he told himself. Inigo had certainly not seen it that way.

Although it hadn’t been the first time this had happened, his heart still sped up when he thought of Inigo casually flipping through the pages of his private, innermost thoughts and carelessly scribbling comments in the empty space. Several of the comments bounced around behind Owain’s eyelids, Inigo’s swirly handwriting contrasting with the memory of his own chicken scratch.

 _To think I once believe this was a diary. Unless you genuinely see yourself as some knockoff DBZ character? Lol._ And _Do the flames affect the pronunciation?_ And, Inigo’s most often used comment, _Seriously???_

Owain wished he had also poured Inigo’s hair gel down the drain when he’d had the chance.

Not like he wasn’t used to that sort of thing by now. But still. It was the principal of the thing. If Owain didn’t stand up to Inigo’s childish antics, who would?

“Sometimes I think about what our lives would be if either of you grew up and realized reasonable adults don’t pull each other’s pigtails.” Severa sighed. “Then I remember it’ll be a cold day in hell before either of you do that.”

Owain wrinkled his nose. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Forget about it,” Severa said. “Hey, what do you think about a surprise birthday party for Lucina? I know it’s still a few weeks out, but I wanted to take a poll before I start committing to stuff.”

That, at least, Owain could answer.

* * *

Inigo was an early bird, so Owain usually expected his days to take a turn for the worse sooner rather than later.

By Tuesday of the following week, however, Inigo had yet to set the apartment on fire or done something equally heinous.

That was mostly because Owain had fallen into the clutches of modern medicine’s nemesis—the common cold—and Inigo, surprisingly, had some sort of code against making someone who already felt like shit feel worse.

He was not, however, above shooting Owain suspicious, sideways looks when he thought Owain wasn’t paying attention.

“You’re not going to die or throw up or something, are you?” Inigo asked without much sympathy. His tone made it clear he found Owain dying and throwing up as equivalent levels of awful. “I’m not helping if you do. And you’ll be the one paying for carpet cleaning services. Just so you know.”

“Shut _up_ ,” Owain groaned. He felt too tired and achy to put up with bullshit today. Part of him wanted to slink back to his bedroom to lick his wounds, but the air conditioner only worked so well and the last thing Owain wanted to feel was sick _and_ sweaty. “I’m not gonna throw up.”

His nose was stuffy, and it made his voice sound all scratchy and weird. Gross.

Looking doubtful, Inigo continued to linger near the entrance like a weirdo. Owain closed his eyes and resumed his sorry attempt to nap on the couch.

After a minute of being ignored—because Naga forbid Inigo not be the center of attention for two seconds, although Owain was sure Inigo would have gladly said the same about him—Owain heard shuffling sounds. Then he felt the presence of someone standing above him.

He cracked his eyes open. Inigo’s face hovered above his own, frowning.

“Back off,” Owain mumbled. He didn’t have the energy to fight. He settled for glaring up at Inigo instead.

Internally, he was forced to admit Inigo did not look as stupid as he normally did when he wasn’t wearing his signature smug grin. He had no idea what Inigo was up to, however.

A cool hand laid itself on his forehead.

Owain smacked Inigo’s wrist away.

“Hey!” Inigo pouted.

Owain’s head pounded. “What are you _doing_?”

Rather than answer, Inigo made a thoughtful sound and squinted at him. Owain rolled his eyes and turned to face the back of the couch.

After a moment of silence, Inigo stopped hovering and left.

Finally.

Owain dozed. He was dimly aware of the sounds of Inigo clomping around in the kitchen, doing whatever and probably making mess while he did it, but he didn’t care enough to check it out.

A while later—although not long enough for Owain’s liking—somebody was snapping their fingers next to his ear to wake him up.

He reluctantly opened his eyes. “Wha…”

“No drooling on communal furniture,” Inigo said. His signature smirk was back. Owain glowered. “Oh, what a face! Sleeping Beauty needs some more rest.”

“Please,” Owain said, which was not a word he ever thought he’d say to Inigo of all people, but desperate times called for desperate measures. “I was having a wonderful dream about a world where you were never born.”

“You wound me,” Inigo said, sounding not at all wounded. “And to think I went to the effort of slaving over a hot stove for you.”

“You don’t know how to turn on a stove,” Owain said without thinking. Then Inigo’s words caught up to him. “Wait, what?”

He finally registered the bowl Inigo was holding in one hand. He eyed it suspiciously.

“Hungry?” Inigo offered up the bowl.

Owain stared. He had no idea what Inigo was doing.

“Too bad,” Inigo said as if Owain had answered. “If you die on my watch, your mom will cry and blame me, and I have a rule about making pretty ladies cry. So sit up.”

Owain was cautiously curious to see where this was going. He slowly sat up and took the bowl offered to him. There was soup inside. It did not look overtly evil.

“Did you poison this?” Owain asked.

His traitorous stomach rumbled at that same moment. Unable to help himself or wait for an answer, Owain took a sip. It tasted like microwaved soup.

Inigo rolled his eyes. “Yeah, you caught me. You’re going to keel over in about ten minutes. Don’t bother calling an ambulance.”

He wasn’t really looking at Owain, which made Owain feel better about taking a second bite. Inigo probably hadn’t put, like, ink in it or something, he figured.

They didn’t talk much after that. Inigo went into his bedroom while Owain polished off the rest of the soup. There was nothing of dubious origins to be found at the bottom of the bowl, so he hesitantly assumed Inigo had made him food… out of the kindness of his heart, perhaps?

No, that didn’t sound right at all. Owain had no idea why Inigo had made him food. But it hadn’t killed him yet, so he reluctantly let it go for the moment.

Inigo didn’t come out of his bedroom when Owain trudged into the kitchen to wash the bowl, nor when he went to brush his teeth in the bathroom. The apartment was uncharacteristically quiet when Owain laid back down on the couch to resume his nap, contentedly full.

Hours later, when he roused himself from sleep to find the apartment dark and the streetlights on, he found a blanket that wasn’t his own draped across his chest.

Not willing to think about the implications of that, he went back to sleep.

* * *

In Owain’s dream, reality blurred in more ways than one.

The streetlights twinkled, out of focus. The apartments they passed were more dark blob than solid building. It was late. The gate around the pool had a sign hanging from it that said no swimmers were allowed at this hour, but neither of them cared. Inigo was giggling and drunk; he was sharp, focused in a way the world wasn’t, and Owain couldn’t think of a reason to leave him behind .

Inigo was more tolerable when he was drunk. When he wasn’t laughing at Owain.

Owain clumsily unlatched the gate and stumbled through, Inigo by his side. The water in the pool was small and dark.

“Hey,” Inigo said from beside him. “Hey.”

“What?” Owain said after a beat. His mouth and brain, usually so trustworthy, were on a connective delay.

Inigo was suddenly very close. “Hey.”

Owain stumbled a few steps back. The world swirled. He kept stumbling as Inigo, the only anchoring point in his reality, pressed against him.

“Hey,” Inigo breathed.

Owain took another step back. “Aren’t you supposed to say something else?”

Inigo threw his head back and laughed. It was almost charming. “What do you mean supposed to?”

“You said something different last time,” Owain said, remembering, but Inigo was already closing the gap between them, making Owain forget what he was going to say next. Their noses brushed.

They fell back, into the pool. The water felt like nothing.

Somehow, Owain came up for air. He emerged facing their apartment building. He couldn’t look behind himself, at the road, because this was a dream and there wasn’t anything over there. He knew not to look away. The important things were the pool, the dark apartment looming over them, and Inigo.

Inigo had already hauled himself out of the water. He was sulking on all fours on the concrete, water streaming from his hair onto the ground. Owain swam over and climbed out of the pool with less effort than should have been required.

“ _No_ ,” Inigo moaned dramatically, scrubbing at his eyes. “Ugh, all this chlorine on my clothes… My _hair_.”

This part felt more familiar. Had happened. Some version of it, at least.

“Shut up,” Owain said without heat, plopping down next to him. He felt a little less drunk now. “Being wet didn’t suddenly make you ugly. Nobody else is even here.”

Inigo paused, hands in his hair, water droplets dripping down his bare wrist. “You think I’m good looking?”

 _That’s not what I said_ , Owain wanted to say—or maybe not _wanted_ so much as _remembered._ But Inigo’s mouth was suddenly pressed against his own, and he couldn’t speak. So he didn’t.

He closed his eyes. The night air was warm.

Then they weren’t kissing anymore. They were in the hallway outside their apartment, leaving wet footprints and puddles in their wake while Inigo tried three times to get the door open. They still weren’t talking.

The door opened.

Inigo went into the bathroom. Owain heard the shower turn on.

He stood there for a long while, leaning against the doorway, waiting for he didn’t know what. His head dully thumped against the wall.

The scenery shifted without warning, and another dream started. Or continued. However dreams worked.

Owain opened his eyes.

* * *

“Are you an imposter?” Owain asked on day two of living in hell, his throat sore, his nose stuffy, and his head absolutely empty. He eyed Inigo with suspicion. “Did you kill the real Inigo days ago and assume I wouldn’t notice?”

Inigo snorted. “Are you still under the impression that I’m a tried and true villain bent on destroying your life or whatever?”

“My eyes may deceive me, but your true intentions cannot be disguised,” Owain croaked. “A scorpion’s nature cannot be changed. You, malefactor and rival, are waiting for me to lower my guard so that you may strike. You will find no victory in neither battle nor war with me, however. I’m aware of your trickery and means.”

“I’m impressed you can still talk like that considering all that cold medicine I snuck into your breakfast,” Inigo said, not knowing how much effort it had taken for Owain to string those words together coherently. He paused. “Come to think of it, maybe being drugged helps the weirdness…”

He trailed off in thought.

Protesting wasn’t worth what little energy he had. Owain heard Inigo finish up whatever he was fiddling with in the kitchen and watched him return to the living room. He walked over to the couch Owain had claimed as his own for the past three days.

“Up,” Inigo said, though not unkindly. He hadn’t been unkind for at all that day. Owain was still waiting for the other shoe to drop.

He lifted his head off the cushions enough for Inigo to sit, though he hadn’t want to move in the first place. Inigo sat down where Owain’s head had been and unceremoniously pushed his head back down. Inigo’s thigh made for a surprisingly decent pillow.

Owain bit his tongue to keep from commenting.

“There,” Inigo said from somewhere above him, sounding accomplished. “How’s that feel?”

Owain wondered if he was having a fever dream.

“This proves it,” he said against Inigo’s leg. “You’ve been replaced by an alien version of my mother.”

Inigo hummed noncommittally. The fact he did not ask Owain to elaborate on this new theory at all was a little disappointing.

The way he gently scratched at Owain’s scalp was less disappointing. It at least distracted him from the pounding in his temple. Whatever medicine Inigo had snuck into his food, it hadn’t really helped.

“Whatever happened to idiots not being able to catch colds?” Inigo asked unsympathetically when Owain sniffed for the tenth time in a row.

That comment was more in line with what Owain expected to hear from the real Inigo.

He sniffed again. “Proves I’m not an idiot then. That’s your domain.”

“Yeah? And what’s yours?”

“Cool stuff.”

Inigo laughed. The sound was not entirely terrible.

Owain dozed for a few minutes while Inigo distracted himself with the cooking competition show playing on the television. However strange their newfound dynamic, Owain was almost willing to ignore it all in favor of savoring a prank-less life for a while longer. It was surprisingly peaceful.

“Almost” being the keyword.

His mother had always said his curiosity would be the death of him.

“Hey,” Owain said after some time of pleasant silence. “Why are you always an asshole to me specifically?”

“I cook your dinner _and_ breakfast, and you still think I’m an asshole?” Inigo said lightly. “Wow. Talk about high maintenance.”

“Seriously,” Owain said. His lips brushed Inigo’s thigh when he spoke. Neither of them mentioned it.

Inigo didn’t answer immediately.

“Instinct, I guess,” he eventually said. Owain felt him shrug.

He grimaced and glanced upwards. “You’re instinctually an ass to me? Specifically?”

“Well, how else am I supposed to get you to look at me?” Inigo joked. He was looking at the TV. “You’d live entirely in your little fantasy world if I didn’t knock you out of there from time to time. I’m doing you a favor by expanding your horizons.”

When Owain didn’t immediately say anything, Inigo added, “A dose of reality is good for people every now and then.”

Owain still didn’t reply. He turned his attention to the TV as well. It was easier to think about what Inigo might have really meant when they weren’t looking at each other.

He took so long to answer that he felt Inigo jolt under him when he spoke again.

“Bold of you to accuse me of living in _my_ dreams, Mr. Head-In-The-Clouds,” Owain said.

“Excuse me?” Inigo sounded incredulous.

Owain swallowed, ignoring the soreness of his throat as he did. “You talk like you’re any different from me. Like you’re not always distracted with dreaming about some person or another who doesn’t want your attention.”

“Rude,” Inigo muttered, his fingers curling against Owain’s scalp.

“Just talk to me if you’re that desperate for attention.” Owain shifted against the couch to get more comfortable. “We can watch a movie or something. You don’t have to ruin my day just because you’re lonely.”

“You think I’m _lonely_?”

“I think you’re something,” Owain said.

“Hm,” Inigo said.

They were both quiet after that.

Slowly, Inigo’s fingers uncurled. Owain felt his nails gently scratch his scalp once more.

He remembered what Severa had said about growing up and felt the ghost of a chlorinated kiss on his lips. They had never talked about that night. Inigo had poured a smoothie on his head the next day, and it had been like it had never happened at all. Owain hadn’t really thought about it since then either.

He wasn’t used to the idea Inigo might want his attention for some reason other than mischief.

“I actually _was_ trying to be nice when I put your clothes in the wash,” Inigo said abruptly. He tugged on the collar of Owain’s shirt with a finger.

“For real?” Owain asked.

“Yeah. Sorry.”

“It’s fine.” A pause. “It’s the thought that counts.”

“Thanks.”

He was growing used to the bleach tie-dye look anyway.

Owain cleared his throat. He felt Inigo’s leg shift under his cheek.

“You want some water?” Inigo asked.

“Nah,” Owain said, although the real answer was yes. He wanted to the both of them to stay where they were more than he wanted a drink.

Inigo’s hand came to rest on the nape of his neck.

* * *

Two days later, Inigo threw open the front door with a bang.

“You infected me with your disgusting germs!” he announced, sounding properly affronted. Then he coughed. Pointedly.

Owain poked his—blessedly clear—head out of his bedroom. “You probably deserved it.”

“Rude!” Inigo crossed his arms. “I have been nothing but kind to you all week!”

“‘Kind’ is too strong of a word,” Owain said.

Inigo groaned dramatically. To Owain’s surprise, he stumbled from the doorway into the hall and planted himself against Owain’s chest.

Owain, not knowing what else to do, laid his hands on Inigo’s biceps. He didn’t push Inigo away.

Then Inigo sniffed. Wetly.

Owain grimaced.

“I can’t believe this.” Inigo’s voice was slightly muffled in Owain’s shirt. “I do your laundry—”

He snorted.

“—nursed you back to health from your _deathbed_ ,” Inigo whined, “and this is how you repay me? With a virus?”

“We live in a two-bedroom box,” Owain pointed out. “You probably caught my cold way earlier, and it’s only manifesting now.”

Inigo scoffed. “Since when do you know how diseases work?”

“Since both my moms and also my brother work in medicine?” Owain said.

Inigo hummed. Owain took that as a surrender.

Then Inigo made another, more miserable, sound, and Owain took pity. He took a step back, then another. Inigo followed without asking.

They made it to the bed without falling, despite he and Inigo stepping on each other’s feet more than once. Inigo remained firmly plastered to Owain’s chest even as Owain laid himself back against the mattress.

It felt both strange and natural to lay there with Inigo, his awful roommate and handsome rival and maybe, Owain had belatedly begun to realize, his friend.

It was possible Inigo had known they were friends way before the thought had ever occurred to Owain, even during the times he hadn’t acted like it. Strange.

People made more sense in Owain’s stories. Their motivations were clear, even when their backstories were convoluted. Particularly when he got to write them.

Inigo was getting a little easier to read, at least, although the weird, twisty feeling he was causing in Owain’s stomach was still peculiar and puzzling.

Let it never be said Owain had ever backed down from a challenge.

Inigo let out a warm breath against Owain’s neck. Owain stared at the ceiling, the pink of Inigo’s hair edging into his peripheral vision.

He didn’t know what to do with his hands.

“Do you want, like, a sandwich or something?” he asked.

“Depends.” Inigo huffed a small laugh and echoed, “You gonna poison it?”

“Only if you ask nicely,” Owain said.

“Well, in that case…”

Inigo didn’t finish. After a moment, Owain patted Inigo’s shoulder. Another beat passed and then Inigo rolled over, seemingly reluctant.

Owain wandered into the kitchen. The air felt cooler in there.

He didn’t actually make Inigo a sandwich. Inigo had eight hundred allergies Owain had yet to fully memorize and had an “easily upset stomach” on top of that—“Picky eater,” Severa had once scoffed despite Inigo’s protests—so Owain ignored everything on his side of the cabinet and only looked at the things that weren’t his. Inigo wouldn’t buy food that would kill him, right? Probably.

Soup was probably a safe bet. Owain grabbed a pot and one of Inigo’s soup cans from the cabinet. It was the same type of soup he’d made Owain just a few days ago. It felt like an equivalent exchange.

Then, after a moment of thought, he put his other mother’s etiquette lessons to use and grabbed Inigo’s packet of tea bags as well. He started to boil some water along with the soup.

They were friends, he thought again, more firmly. He was starting to come to terms with the idea.

They were friends but still rivals. He didn’t know if they would immediately go back to aggravating each other once Inigo was feeling better. Maybe. Maybe not. Or maybe they’d aggravate each other without being intolerable like they’d been before. Who knew.

But a sometimes truce, an understanding—

A thump came from the bedroom, and Owain realized he’d left Inigo alone in his room with the perfect opportunity to dig around where he shouldn’t. Maybe Inigo had even found the Manuel of Justice in its new hiding place and was already reading it. That would be just typical.

Owain huffed as he watched the water boil. He didn’t sprint into his bedroom like he might have any other time, however. The thought of Inigo nosing through his stuff didn’t tick him off the way it had before—although that wasn’t to say he loved the idea either. The urge to knock Inigo off his high horse wasn’t as all-consuming as it might have been a few days ago.

They were… friendly rivals, maybe. Awful friends with good intentions. There was a nuance there Owain had never considered before. The world of dark anti-heroes and unbeatable villains hadn’t much prepared him for this. Those concepts, even in the most elaborate fiction, seemed much more straightforward than the reality laid before him.

Inigo made a happy sound of triumph in the bedroom. Then he sneezed. Loudly. Owain did not look forward to finding out what he was doing in there. A part of him was tempted to dump the tea out when he found Inigo digging into things he shouldn’t, but then he decided to hold off on that sort of thing for a while and see where this whole frenemy thing went first.

Making the effort to get along with Inigo even after neither of them needed a truce any longer—it was a foreign but no longer incomprehensible thought.

He told himself he’d give it a shot.

**Author's Note:**

> My working notes for this fic were "Owain hates Inigo bc he’s handsome and genuinely charming/funny despite the fact he chooses to be an asshole. Inigo hates Owain the way you hate somebody you despise for liking in the first place."
> 
> Inigo is aware he has some romantic feelings for Owain. Owain is less aware.
> 
> They'll grow up and learn to be real friends eventually. They're just a little slow this time around.
> 
> Feel free to leave a comment below or hit me up on my [tumblr!](http://someobscurereference.tumblr.com/)


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